


Remember With Me

by Port



Category: Without a Trace
Genre: D/M_Undercover Ficathon, M/M, Post-Showdown, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-10
Updated: 2007-12-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Port/pseuds/Port
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Showdown, Martin returns to work and is dismayed at how he finds Danny and the office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Made possible by the insightful comments of my beta, Carina84. Written for the D/M Ficathon run by the heroic Smilla and le_mot_mo. Written for redfairie19. I've reworked the ending, shortened the title, and added a postscript since then, so the story is a little different from the original posting over at [dm_undercover](http://dm-undercover.livejournal.com).

Martin was surprised to exit the building and find a misty rain falling. He'd been spent his first day back inside, not even leaving for lunch. Truth be told, it had been too much work simply hobbling down to the kiosk in the lobby for a sandwich. The idea of going outside and across the street for a burger or tacos made him grimace and fall back on that promise he'd made himself in the hospital. He'd get through this with patience and no complaints.

With that in mind, he'd settled for what Danny called "lobby food" and stayed at his desk from morning to night, covering the office while the team searched for the MP. 

Kid with a bomb. What ever happened to normal acting out? Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Martin remembered when lighting up a joint expressed everything there was to say against authority. Now they had to blow up their schools.

He shook his head. The whole team had been in that school. If the bomb had functioned properly, Martin would have been the only surviving member of the Missing Persons Unit. Not a distinction he was eager to earn, though he saw the irony. Getting shot six weeks ago would have saved his life today. Maybe it would yet. He had a long way to go before Jack let him out in the field.

Funny how his thoughts never took such dark turns when he worked in White Collar. Martin tugged his raincoat closed and adjusted his grip on the cane. Damn thing offset his balance, put him in mind of a fall, and wouldn't that be the perfect end to a perfect day. First thing he'd done at the office was encounter Danny. Might as well end the day with a tumble down to the street.

He'd more or less wanted to throw himself from a height after that little meeting. He and Danny were never meant for awkward exchanges, and it had set the tone for the rest of Martin's day. He honestly hadn't expected an apology. He hadn't wanted one either, not from Danny. In fact, he'd spent some time trying to think of a way to thank Danny, and he was frustrated with his inability to find the right words. As it turned out, Danny didn't give any indication of being receptive to a discussion of that night, and if avoiding the issue would make him feel better, well, Martin would try not to feel too relieved. 

He had other problems, anyway. 

The wet pavement made the cane more hazardous than usual, so Martin took it slow as he approached the steps leading down to the sidewalk. These would be hell, pulling on muscles still tender from surgery and stitches, but he hadn't had to do PT today and this would make up for it. Besides, he'd crash as soon as he got home, so down he went.

Under the streetlights, the sidewalk glinted a gritty silver, and he couldn't see too far ahead. The rain was the sort to fizzle through the air rather than fall straight down; not a bother until he made it home, where he would be sure to find his jacket soaked through to his suit.

The cold wet of it all was refreshing, especially in contrast to the office. Martin savored the peace out here. The occasional car slowly made its way along the street, tires sounding grainy against the damp asphalt, and a few pedestrians walked by in a hurry, no doubt on their way to a warm restaurant or bar for a late meeting with friends or family. They didn't pay attention to the young man with a cane, and Martin decided he preferred the outdoors to the federal building where he worked, where everyone knew he'd gotten shot and treated him like an invalid hero. They put him on the spot every time he ventured from his desk to the bathroom or lobby or snack machines. No one had to say a word, just look at him. Martin had never been so out of place, and his mouth hurt from smiling in the self-deprecating way they all seemed to need him to do.

Even Danny had seemed to need that. Martin hadn't expected him to, but things had changed, and if Martin wanted to catch up, he'd have to adjust. No use asking why.

Six weeks without even a phone call. He never thought that would require an apology, but he had wondered. Martin had wondered how getting shot could have transformed him into bad company, how it could have taken away whatever it was Danny had seen in him. The only thing Martin really missed was the sense of his own vitality. Maybe Danny knew it was gone too. Martin had spent six weeks convinced that was it, that he'd lost some essential quality that Danny needed. 

Then he'd returned to work.

Few things at the office were as he remembered. Dynamics had shifted, Martin and Danny at the epicenter. Danny appeared to have made it onto Jack's shit list, even before bungling tonight's apprehension of the missing kid. Martin couldn't tell why; he hadn't been here to see Danny's work over the past month and a half. It was odd, though. Odd enough to set Martin to puzzling it out. Because it didn't fit. Danny had been in that car too. He'd shielded Martin with his body when they ducked, pressing him almost in half as bullets shattered the windshield. Later, apparently, Danny had driven off their attackers in an exchange of gunfire. Saved both their lives.

Martin had a habit of choosing role models who were difficult to please, but in Jack he may have found one who set the bar higher than even Martin wanted to reach. Danny, apparently, had stopped trying.

Or maybe Danny tried too hard. Talking to that messed up kid, relying only on himself to keep a bomb from going off…. Danny was lucky Jack didn't suspend him. But then, Danny always did push the line. Martin smiled in the privacy of the dark street. In a block or so he'd break down and hail a cab for the rest of the way home, but for now, he could spare a moment for those times Danny had done exactly the wrong thing. That day in Graham Spaulding's house, searching for evidence while Martin kept watch outside. Threatening that guy Radio in the interrogation room. Danny kept Martin on his toes, got him into trouble as often as not. Perhaps, without Martin around to balance out that penchant for mischief, Danny had simply drifted too far past the line. It was an arrogant idea, but Martin had long since come to think of himself and Danny as partners; he knew where and how they complemented each other.

Which was not to say that Martin never screwed up. He had two gunshot wounds to prove that he did indeed do the wrong thing from time to time. The difference was that he never intended to do it. It just happened. It happened with Jack and Spaulding in the car, Jack's whisper a disgusting purr, describing the unthinkable. It happened worse in an inner city apartment where Martin looked up and found his sidearm hot in his palm, a man dead on the floor. He wondered now how Danny would have dealt with the situation and decided it was a good thing Vivian had been there. She was an agent with experience, more so than Danny or Martin, and at this rate, probably a better future with the Bureau.

What was it she had told him about dealing with these things? Put it in a box. File it away as part of the job. Don't think about it. But Martin had never been able to comply, and he knew he never would. It was too much like something his dad would do. 

Danny would never take that advice seriously either. When something happened to Danny—or even just near him—Danny found ways to work through it. How many times had Martin come across him pacing empty rooms, talking to himself with his hands all over the place, doing all he could to spill out of his body what was left of a shooting or a dead MP or a particularly volatile memory? It was a holdover from AA, by Martin's guess. Talk therapy. It had never worked for Martin, but Danny lived by it.

The incredible thing was, it worked. While Martin brooded and started noticing lines in his face where the skin had yesterday been young, Danny actually sorted out his problems. He'd go to sleep exhausted from a one-sided, aerobic conversation, and wake up playful and buoyant.

Martin might have tried to learn how to do that himself, but he never really got a chance to see how Danny did it in the first place. All that talk therapy, and he never unloaded on Martin. Even after they started sleeping together, Danny only ever told him things anecdotally, no trace of the confessional tone Martin imagined prevailed in AA. Just a straightforward accounting of something that once happened, something that related to whatever they were talking about at the time. Martin was half-glad for that, but he thought it would be all right if Danny used him as a confidant occasionally. He'd expected it after the Adisa hit, and actually had gone a few weeks resenting the hell out of Danny for not coming by to dump it all on him.

The resentment hadn't lingered past his first few hours in the office today. From Danny's silence, it was obvious he hadn't been able to talk himself out of whatever was bothering him, and his work had suffered. Jack couldn't give him any slack, but Martin… Martin would give Danny anything he needed. Maybe tomorrow he'd figure out _how_.

Time to call a cab. He turned around to scan the street for yellow cars, but found instead a tall figure wearing no raincoat, still and wide-eyed like a startled cat when Martin spotted him.

"Danny?"

Danny lifted one hand, as if to say "Hi." He quickly shed the surprise in his posture and jogged forward half a block to stand near Martin, but not too near. His suit and shirt collar were damp, water droplets beaded all over his black hair, but he didn't look cold. Somewhat chagrined, and beneath that, unhappy.

"Thought you went home an hour ago?"

"I did." Danny shrugged. "Just. Sort of, hung around a bit. I saw you leave, and…"

"You following me, Taylor?"

Danny looked down and shrugged again. "Guess so. Look. About this morning, I feel bad, and—"

"I was going to order Chinese." Martin shuffled his feet, trying not to put too much weight on the cane.

Danny's head jerked up. "I'm sorry, what?"

"At home. I was going to order something in. We could share."

Danny frowned. "Really?"

Martin wondered when was the last time Danny had had a meal. Come to think of it, he did look thinner.

"If you don't mind taking a cab."

Danny's eyes widened. "Of course." He spun around to look for a cab, probably believing Martin would collapse without a chance to sit, like he hadn't been sitting all day. Martin studied the tense line of his shoulders, saw the bristles on the back of his neck had grown long. 

You're not taking care of yourself, he almost said. "You need a haircut."

He hadn't even meant to say that much, and for a second it looked like Danny might ignore him. Then Danny turned around, his face naked. He opened his mouth but said nothing as he studied Martin from feet to head. 

When a cab approached, Danny turned again and flagged it down with quick, sharp movements. Martin allowed Danny to hold his cane but not to steady him as he climbed into the car, ignoring his soft apology. Inside, he took a long look at Danny, who rested against the mildewed upholstery like a man who couldn't close his eyes at night. The car pulled away from the curb.

In the hospital, his visitors had only talked about Danny when Martin asked about him, and no one had given Danny credit for what he'd done at the scene of the shooting. Martin remembered, though. 

He'd do his best now to help Danny forget.

End.


	2. Postscript

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right after Remember With Me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned a continuation, but the excellent farad expressed an interest in seeing how Martin makes Danny forget what an awful time he's had since the shooting. My first impulse was to write comment!porn, but since I feel bad inflicting my erotica on anyone so nice as farad, I wrote this instead. Hope it's okay! -- Thanks go to Carina84, Smilla, and le_mot_mo for their comments on my second-to-last draft of this!

The taxi carried them smoothly through the darkened city streets, refracted streetlight passing in square waves across the back seat. Martin had barely looked away from Danny since they'd entered the cab. Soon after the door had closed, shutting them into the dry, silent warmth of the car, he realized that he had stopped thinking. The endless assessment, reassessment, planning, worrying, questioning and wire-thin encouragement he'd subjected himself to after the shooting—it had all calmed, leaving Martin a little tired. A little breathless. On the way to feeling restful, except for….

Except for the fact that he finally had Danny here beside him, all to himself.

Martin hadn't seen him in six weeks. Every day at the hospital, he'd wanted Danny to walk through the door. He'd wanted to see for himself that Danny was okay, yes, but it had also been a selfish desire, a raw need to have Danny near, to have Danny's attention. To have Danny in the room with him, focusing on Martin with his eyes and hands and breath. In the hospital, Martin had been a center of attention every time his family or coworkers visited, and he'd hated it, hated their assumptions, the discomfort of their gazes. Danny would never look at him that way. But, Martin had known, Danny would never visit him here. Martin had simply known it, no matter how much he had hoped.

Knowing it on that gut-level, forgiveness had come easily, because he understood. After leaving the hospital, Martin went home to his apartment and started physical therapy. Not much had occupied him between appointments. He'd read a lot. Watched the Discovery Channel too much. C-SPAN. A little Fox News. All that spare time, all that rest, and he couldn't help but daydream about Danny coming over to share it with him. He'd stare into space while lying in his bed in the afternoon, and the image would come without being invited. Danny stretched out beside him, one hand resting on Martin's belly, fingers splayed widely. Warmth spread out from Martin's navel, shielding him. Danny breathed even and free, eyes heavy, content to lay in stillness. He was content to slow down for Martin, and that—that thought shook Martin out of his fantasy. He blinked and brought his bedroom into focus. Cobwebs in the corners of his ceiling, a bird's wing flashing out of sight beyond the window. He'd never thought of his apartment as so high up before he'd had to actually live in it, weeks at a time.

As he'd started preparing to return to work, Martin saw Danny in his dreams. Often they were erotic, variations of memories. Danny kneeling between Martin's bent knees. Danny trying not to press on Martin's head, his fingers ghosting across Martin's temples. Danny straining, looking Martin right in the eye, refusing to blink, and the rushing combination of ecstasy and mortification and challenge Martin felt the longer he met Danny's gaze. He'd wake up out of breath and hard, almost too tired to do anything about it.

Other times, the dreams were hardly even noteworthy. Just him and Danny speaking to each other, nonsense words. Danny would laugh, and Martin would look away. Another dream would take its place before Martin could look back at Danny, and he'd spend the rest of the night searching, trying to move past impossible obstacles, every intention difficult in the way of dreams. Half the time, he'd forget he was looking for Danny, only knowing that he'd lost something warm-funny-exasperating-important. Those times, he'd wake up and watch the health and job concerns chase each other around his mind until finally falling back asleep.

Danny shifted in his seat and glanced over at Martin. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question—Martin knew from the way he raised his eyebrows and canted his jaw—then held himself still and turned away.

It made sense that Danny hadn't visited Martin in his apartment. Danny was somewhere far away, probably had been for a while.

They had a good five minutes before the cab would reach the apartment. Martin unfisted his hands, only just noticing that Danny's tension had transferred over to him. He reached out with his right hand and took hold of Danny's left. It felt cold and dry, and Danny hardly moved. If anything, Danny looked more tense. He glanced over at Martin, face blank. Martin looked down and stopped thinking. He began slowly to squeeze Danny's hand, warming it.

Danny allowed it, but didn't otherwise react.

Martin brought Danny's hand up, cupped in his own, and breathed warm air over it. Danny did react this time, a sudden, small laugh and minute shake of his head. Martin smiled in the dark and lifted Danny's hand a little higher, bringing it to his lips, which he pressed against the thumbnail.

That made Danny start and look at Martin, really look at him. Danny opened his mouth, but the last thing Martin wanted was for Danny to ever ask permission. He squeezed Danny's hand. Smiled. Danny closed his mouth and inched closer, thigh against thigh. Martin's hold on Danny's hand became a solid grip, and Danny leaned closer, past eye contact, mouth near enough for his breath to whisper against Martin's cheek.

"I'm sorry," Danny murmured. "I am."

Martin shook his head, aware that Danny hadn't withdrawn, soft puffs of air glancing off his jaw. Martin held himself still, demanding. He hadn't let go of Danny's wrist.

Finally, Danny's other hand crossed in front of Martin's face, casting a quick shadow over Martin's eyes. He traced the plane of Martin's cheek, the barest brush, and found the line of Martin's jaw. Martin exhaled and pressed against that cold palm.

"I'm sorry too," he admitted, not knowing where the words came from or what exactly he regretted, except for everything. Everything but this. Danny's thumb indenting the too-dark skin below Martin's eye; his fingers angling Martin's head into a tilt. Something began to feel right, an unfamiliar realization. Danny broke Martin's grip on his other hand and blindly unbuckled his seatbelt before turning his chest against Martin's and leaning in. Absurdly, Martin thought about the cabbie just before Danny kissed him. After only a second, Danny pulled off and took a deep breath, clearly needing it. A glance showed the cabbie squinting into the dark windshield, oblivious. It didn't matter, anyway. Danny's breath was hot, and the scent of his sweat stung Martin's senses. His mouth retained the sense-memory of Danny's soft lips against his own. Nothing had been so warm, not in a month and a half.

 **End**


End file.
